


Under Control

by rotaryphones



Series: Under Control [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Hypnotism, M/M, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:18:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotaryphones/pseuds/rotaryphones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“You know John, I could hypnotize you if you really want."</em> What followed was an arrangement that John never thought he would be lucky enough to find, and never insane enough to accept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Control

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Под контролем](https://archiveofourown.org/works/667725) by [purplerain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplerain/pseuds/purplerain)



> This was written based on [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=34139735#t34139735) from the sherlockbbc_fic kink meme. Although it comes from research, nothing in this story involving hypnosis should be taken as accurate.

Like so many things in John’s new life, it started with a case.

The suspect happened to be a hypnotherapist who had altered her boyfriend’s memories just enough to provide herself with a solid alibi. As usual, Sherlock unraveled their stories with a speed and brilliance that made John’s head spin. One look at the boyfriend’s jacket, and he knew exactly where he had spent Saturday night—not, as it turned out, at home with the hypnotherapist watching telly. Which left her plenty of opportunity to murder the client with whom she’d been having an affair.

It was one of the most difficult cases John had been a part of, and not because it was particularly violent, or dangerous, or challenging. Violence and danger he could handle, clearly. And the challenge was Sherlock’s territory. If anything, the case had been not quite challenging enough.

No, what made it difficult was the constant talk of inductions, trances, suggestibility, vulnerability, hypnotic states. These topics just didn’t come up in day-to-day conversation, and for three days solid it was all anyone would discuss, especially Sherlock. John had never been so constantly aroused in his life. And it became increasingly difficult to avoid a hard-on at the crime scene, or at home, or even at work as soon as his thoughts drifted to the case.

And John knew, just _knew_ , that the hypnosis was not all therapeutic. He listened to Sherlock’s deductions, and all he could think about were the hypnotherapist and boyfriend in bed, playing god knew what sort of kinky mind games, meddling so much with his free will that planting an invented memory was simple. Then he thought of the client, the one who was murdered, and the first moment his therapy session had turned erotic. There was nothing that pointed to the affair starting in the middle of a trance, per se, but John drew his own conclusions, and his imagination provided every detail at night as he wanked in bed.

So yes, John had a bit of a hypnosis kink. It wasn’t something he ever planned to bring to a relationship, just a private matter between himself and his left hand. But then, nothing was truly private when one lived with Sherlock.

***

It was the weekend, two days after the case had ended. And thank god, because John was once again able to get through his day without fighting erections like a teenager.

That meant he was able to focus on more important things, like eating breakfast and eying Sherlock, who was in one of his moods. The wall wasn’t being shot at quite yet but it was only a matter of time. Sherlock had no new cases, and his latest experiments were incubating if the foot in the crisper was any indication. Currently, he was sitting across the table typing furiously at his laptop, but any minute now he would stop, complain of boredom, and try something reckless. John dipped a spoon into his grapefruit and waited.

Although the room had been silent for some time, Sherlock suddenly spoke with his usual air of continuing some unknown conversation. “You know John, I could hypnotize you if you really want.” Sherlock didn’t look up as he said this, just kept banging at his keyboard, while John experienced a brief panic attack.

“What?” he sputtered around grapefruit. Longing, sharp and consuming, pierced him as his mind raced ahead, accepting the offer, seizing this opportunity to have one of his strongest fantasies fulfilled in real life by someone he trusted. It was a visceral reaction John was quick to suppress, although it surprised him with its intensity. No, he thought to himself. Sherlock was only thinking of the case. He was toying with the idea out of boredom. It wasn’t a serious offer. And even if it were, John couldn’t in good conscience make Sherlock an unknowing participant in his sexual fantasy.

This train of thought from desire to caution lasted only a brief moment. “Why would I want you messing around with my head any more than you already do?” he said vaguely, looking down at his breakfast and trying his best to feign disinterest.

“Because,” Sherlock replied, almost in a singsong voice, “It. Turns. You. On.” He punctuated each word with a tap on his computer, then hit Enter with a satisfied jab and looked up at John with one of his cheeky smiles. “I’m not wrong,” he added before John could deny it.

But John wasn’t prepared to deny anything. He was rendered speechless by Sherlock’s disturbing insight, and the casual manner in which he exposed something so deeply personal and hidden. “What on god’s earth are you talking about?” he shouted, hiding behind anger so hopefully Sherlock wouldn’t see the nerve that he hit.

“It’s the only explanation,” said Sherlock, as though John’s sexuality were a matter of _logic_. He quirked an eyebrow and closed his computer, now giving John his full terrifying attention. “Surely you don’t need me to walk you through it.” And now he was teasing.

John scowled. He didn’t like where this was going, but he needed to know what Sherlock saw. Was it written on his face? In the way he talked? What if others could see it, even though what was obvious to Sherlock was rarely obvious to anyone else. “Yes, I think you’d better,” said John darkly.

Sherlock tented his fingers and pierced him with those too-perceptive eyes. “You’ve been masturbating three times more frequently than usual,” he started.

 _“What?”_ John interrupted, now genuinely angry. “What are you, a voyeur? Have you been spying on me?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hardly. It’s not my fault that your bed squeaks in a particular pattern when you pleasure yourself, and we do share a bathroom, keep in mind. May I continue?”

John winced and pressed a finger to his temple. “Fine.”

“You’ve been masturbating three times more frequently than usual. Why? What’s changed? You’re not seeing anyone new, your job isn’t any different, and the case that we were working on had only one element that made it unique, unlike any of the other cases we’ve dealt with before, and that was the role of hypnosis. Once I had my theory, it was easy to observe that your skin flushed every time that specific topic was mentioned. Plus,” he added with a half smile, “I looked through your browsing history.”

 _“What?”_ John once again interjected. Good lord, the mind control porn Sherlock must have uncovered… “What is wrong with you? Do you have any sense of privacy _at all?_ ”

Sherlock leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “If you want privacy, clearing your browsing history is the simplest thing in the world. Don’t tell me you don’t know how.”

So. Power of deduction aside, Sherlock had all the proof he needed, and John had no room left for denial. He should have seen this coming, he supposed. John scrubbed his hands over his face, feeling completely exposed, and asked, “Are you done?”

“Not quite,” said Sherlock. “The only thing left to determine was what interests you more: being hypnotized, or being the hypnotist. It was unclear from the stories you read which you prefer, but since our recent case involved both males in the more submissive role, and you reacted so strongly, I assume that your interest lies in _being_ hypnotized and not vice versa.”

John was nearly trembling at this point. He was a private person by nature, which would seem problematic when living with Sherlock Holmes. Except Sherlock never seemed to care very much about the personal details he could dredge up, and that somehow made it okay. But this—this was too much. This was information that John did _not_ want in Sherlock’s clinical hands. He had more adrenaline pumping through his body from this conversation than he did when firing a gun. He wasn’t ready to talk about it. And certainly not with Sherlock, of all people.

“So I wanted to let you know,” Sherlock continued, oblivious to John’s distress, “that I could hypnotize you if you want. It might be interesting.”

John pushed back his chair and stood, leaving his half-eaten grapefruit on the table. “I’m going to go into my room,” he said slowly, “and forget that this conversation ever happened. I would appreciate if you do the same.”

***

Just because John didn’t want to talk about it didn’t mean he could stop thinking about it. Once the shock had worn off, curiosity took over. What would it be like to actually go under? What method would Sherlock use? Did he really know how to hypnotize someone, or was he bluffing, or perhaps just being cocky? Was it really such a terrible thing to consider?

Of course it was, but John couldn’t help considering it anyway. He hated that Sherlock knew what got him off, while Sherlock, as far as he could tell with his limited observational skill, had no sex drive to speak of. It made him feel weaker, vulnerable, and he detested feeling weak in any way. Detested it, but craved it at the same time. And that was the whole appeal of hypnosis, wasn’t it? Having the choice taken from him. Being made vulnerable without any nagging doubts, without anxiety. Letting go, completely.

Needless to say, the prospect ran through his mind that night as he stroked himself. Thoughts of what Sherlock, always so confident and in control, would do to him. What it would feel like. And then his bed creaked, and he thought of Sherlock in his own room, listening, knowing that John was masturbating and knowing what he was thinking of, and god help him, the thought brought him over the edge.

It wasn’t that he was attracted to Sherlock, exactly. He still considered himself straight. (Who knew what Sherlock considered himself to be.) But this went beyond attraction. It was a deep-rooted need, a base desire that had never been so strong before now, and it dictated the direction of John’s focus. At the moment, his entire focus was on Sherlock.

The following evening, John was putting away that week’s shopping—anything to get himself out of the flat—when he finally gathered the nerve to broach the topic again. Sherlock was seated on the couch watching one of his reality shows, still in his robe, with his knees pulled up to his chest. John turned to him and thought briefly how beautiful he looked, with his pale skin and small features. It was becoming clear that he was already in way too deep.

“Why would you want to?” he asked after a minute had elapsed. Sherlock said nothing, waiting for John to finish his sentence, even though he _knew_ what John was talking about, damn it. “Why would you want to hypnotize me?” he conceded, voice cracking. It sounded so childish and silly to say out loud. But it affected him so strongly.

Sherlock grinned at the television. “I think it could be fun,” he replied. He talked as though it were a game, with no consideration for John’s discomfort or the gravity of the decision. John didn’t know if that made it easier or harder.

“But what would you get out of it?” he pressed. Surely it wouldn’t be sexual for Sherlock, like it would be for him. He wanted to know why Sherlock would agree to that.

“I’m a sociopath, remember? I enjoy manipulating people. Maybe I’m curious to see what I can make you do.”

John closed his eyes and sucked in air, then let it out in a low chuckle. “Not very manipulative if you tell me ahead of time, is it?”

Sherlock finally turned to him, still with that impish smile, and touched a finger to his nose. “High-functioning.”

“But what if—“ John swallowed— “what if I _do_ get off on it?” He hid behind the hypothetical, even though they were beyond that by now.

“I’m not a child. I’m familiar with the functions of the human body.”

John wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but if Sherlock was okay with this being one sided, then… “Okay. I’ll do it.”

Sherlock’s face lit up as he clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Brilliant!” Jumping up from the couch, he turned off the television then motioned to where he had been sitting. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said.

“Now?” John squeaked.

“Of course,” said Sherlock. “I’m bored to bloody tears, or hadn’t you noticed?”

John limped over to the couch—nothing like acute anxiety to make his leg act up—and dropped heavily onto the cushions.

“Before we do this,” said John, “I have some ground rules.” He had been thinking of this all day. Just because he was about to relinquish mental control didn’t mean Sherlock could do _whatever_ he liked. That would be frightening. “First of all, I want to remember every single thing that happens. No blackouts, no amnesia. Secondly, this is _private_ , between you and me. So no mentioning this around Scotland Yard, and nothing that interferes with my daily life. And third, nothing permanent. I don’t want to wake up with altered memories like that poor sod.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What about triggers?”

Good lord, was Sherlock already planning to do this more than once? John swallowed thickly. “Triggers are okay. But again, nothing that would interfere with my daily life.” Triggers were more than okay, in fact, and John was starting to get aroused just thinking about it. “I trust you, you know,” he added. For better or worse, he thought.

Sherlock’s smile turned affectionate. “Yes, I know.” Which wasn’t exactly comforting, but it would have to do.

With a flourish, Sherlock pulled a lighter from the pocket of his robe and lit a candle that had been placed on the table in front of John.

“Has that been there the whole time?” John asked in surprise.

Sherlock responded with a sigh. “Once again, your powers of observation astound me. Now, focus on the flame and feel yourself start to relax.”

John held up a hand, giving him a moment to collect himself. “Do you actually know what you’re doing?” he asked. “I mean, have you done this before?”

“No, never,” Sherlock happily admitted. “But I did some research. And if that idiot woman can make a living from it, how hard can it be?”

John didn’t find that all that encouraging, but he sighed and settled himself in, returning his eyes to the candle that danced in front of him. “Right. So, what do I do?”

“You don’t need to talk,” said Sherlock.

He pulled up a chair and sat down very close to John, facing him. John felt immediately like one of Sherlock’s experiments, especially since Sherlock was wearing the expression of intense concentration that he usually reserved for crime scenes. It was a little unnerving to be on the receiving end of such scrutiny, but John tried to put it out of his mind. He also tried to ignore the combined anticipation-trepidation that had settled in his gut.

“Now,” Sherlock began again. “Focus on the flame and feel yourself start to relax. All you have to do is listen to my voice, and you’ll find that it’s very easy to drift down into a relaxed state, naturally and at your own pace. Just keep your eyes on the flame, right at the center of the flame, and listen carefully to my words.

“I want you to take a deep breath in, John, and hold it…very good, now let it out slowly and feel your muscles start to grow loose. Once more. Take a deep breath…and release it, letting all the tension flow out of your body. Well done, John, you’re doing excellent so far.”

John felt a warm, satisfied glow at the compliment, rare as they were coming from Sherlock, but he still wasn’t sure this would work. At the start, he had trouble focusing his attention, spending too much thought on gauging his body’s reactions, or worrying whether Sherlock would notice his growing erection. Because whether or not it worked, this was already the sexiest thing he’d ever done. Sherlock’s smooth, low voice, droning so sweetly, trying to work its way under the barriers of John’s conscious mind, was gradually making him dizzy with arousal. Or maybe it was just making him dizzy. He blinked a few times, eyes watering from staring too long into the candle’s bright flame.

“That’s right, John,” said Sherlock. “You can feel that tired sensation working at the corners of your eyes, making it harder and harder to keep them open, your eyelids feeling heavier and heavier. Try to keep them open so you can continue to stare into the heart of the flame, but the more you try, the heavier they start to feel. You can blink if you need to, but every time you do your eyelids feel heavier and heavier, wanting to close, becoming more and more difficult to keep them open. That’s right. You can let them close now, and as you do you’ll feel your body sinking deeper into relaxation.”

John felt his eyes slip shut, and his whole body sink into the cushions. Without the candle, he was left with the drowsy feel of his body, the sound of Sherlock’s words, and the steady pulsing in his groin.

“Very good, John. You’re doing so well. In fact, your eyelids are so heavy, I want you to imagine there are weights attached to each one. And no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to open them again. No matter how hard you try, your eyes will stay tightly shut, those weights pulling them down. You know that in an emergency you could open your eyes if you really needed to, but I want you to use your imagination so that no matter how hard you try to open them, they will remain heavy and tightly shut. Try to open your eyes now, John, and you’ll find that you can’t.”

So John did. He tried to pry his eyes open, knowing, as Sherlock said, that he was perfectly capable of doing so if needed. But even though he knew he could open them he just—didn’t. He worked the muscles of his face, trying to lift his lids, and at the same time keeping them heavily clenched. It was a strange contradiction to experience, and he wondered if it were a sign of trance, or whether he was just playing along. Would he be able to tell the difference?

“You can stop trying now, and let the tension drain from your face, taking you even deeper. Now John, I’m going to touch you in just a moment, but everything I do simply makes you feel more relaxed and open.”

 _Touch_ him? John’s mind immediately went to a filthy, uncomfortable place. Then he felt Sherlock’s surprisingly warm fingers on his wrist, so he stopped worrying and simply let him get on with it. Sherlock lifted his wrist in the air so that his hand was dangling loose, and moved it back and forth a bit. John could feel his elbow and fingers swinging freely, but his entire arm felt tingly from disuse, almost as if it weren’t his.

“That’s right. I want you to give me full control of your arm, letting it hang heavy like a wet rag. Very good. When I drop it onto your lap, you’ll feel a wave of relaxation from the top of your head down to your toes, and you’ll go twice as deep as you are now.”

Yes, it was Sherlock’s arm, not his own. He liked the thought of that. And when it landed on his thigh with a dull thump, _oh_ did that feel good. Sherlock repeated the process with his other arm, lifting it, moving it about, then dropping it like a lead weight. John’s head suddenly seemed too heavy for his neck, and he felt it tipping forward towards his chest.

“Very deep, now, and going deeper,” Sherlock murmured, pressing down on John’s left shoulder, and he melted under the touch.

He found that Sherlock’s persistent patter was starting to blur together, like it sometimes did when Sherlock used him as a skull. There was more talk of relaxation and deepening, then Sherlock asked him to envision himself at the top of a flight of stairs. A spiral staircase easily materialized before his mind’s eye. He watched his feet as Sherlock led him down, one step at a time, counting them off from ten to zero, down to the soft bed that waited at the bottom.

By now John was feeling more than a little floaty, aware of what was happening, but enjoying it too much to do anything but go along with it. And he found himself thinking that he could listen to Sherlock talk like this for hours. He hadn’t had any real expectations going in, but it certainly didn’t feel like sinking under someone else’s power, or going mindless and blank. It was just a pleasant sensation, floating and listening. It also felt safe. Or maybe that was Sherlock telling him he was safe?

“How do you feel John?” asked Sherlock, and it took a moment to realize he was expected to answer. “You’ll find it very easy to talk, just as you normally would.”

“Good,” John murmured. It seemed like too much effort to elaborate, but that one word made a nice summary.

“Yes John, very eloquent,” said Sherlock with obvious sarcasm, but he was quick to smooth it over and return to a more encouraging tone. “You feel very relaxed and peaceful, don’t you? And you would love to return to this state over and over again.”

John nodded, just barely, because it was still difficult to lift his head. Fortunately, he knew Sherlock was adept at picking up on small movements.

“I’m going to help you return to this deep, relaxed feeling. Whenever I snap my fingers and say the word sleep, you’ll find it easy to drop right back to this peaceful state. And every time I snap my fingers and say the word sleep, you may find yourself dropping even five times deeper than you currently are. Five times deeper. You would like that, wouldn’t you, John?”

Again, the slightest of nods, although he had his doubts. Shouldn’t he be well and truly hypnotized before Sherlock starting adding such instructions?

“Very good. You’ve done so very well, you should feel proud. Now, when I count to three, your eyes will open and you’ll feel wide awake, refreshed and aware. One…two…three.”

Slowly, John blinked himself into awareness of the room, thinking to himself, was that it? It had been lovely, and peaceful, and oh god his erection hadn’t subsided the entire time, but he was expecting it to go longer. He was expecting Sherlock to take advantage at the very least, test the limits of what he could get away with. It didn’t seem like him to end it so soon.

As his eyes adjusted and his limp muscles started to stretch, the first thing that came into focus was Sherlock’s face, still uncomfortably close to his own. And then John registered his expression: the self-satisfied smirk, the hunger in his eyes, the overall mischief that meant trouble.

He heard the snap in his ear, saw Sherlock’s lips form the word “sleep,” and felt his mind sink like a rock under the command.

***

“Can you hear me, John?”

It was several deepening exercises later, and if John had earlier doubts about whether this would work, he wasn’t thinking of them now. He knew he was very deeply hypnotized. Sherlock had told him so.

“Yes,” he said. It came out as a sigh.

“And how do you feel?”

“Good.”

There was a slight pause before Sherlock asked, “Care to elaborate?”

“Very relaxed,” John offered in a low murmur after a moment’s consideration. He found his thoughts were connecting a bit slower than usual. “Hard,” he added. Part of him wished he could do something about that, but he didn’t think he could move his hands.

“Yes John, I can see that. I think we’ll take care of that problem later. Now what are we going to do with you first, I wonder?”

John didn’t have an answer to that, so he said nothing and waited.

“Hm, yes. Let’s try something fun, shall we? John, when I count to three, I want you to open your eyes. You will feel wide awake, but you will actually remain deep in trance. You’ll find it easy to speak and act normally, and you will not be aware that you are hypnotized at all. In fact, you will believe that we haven’t even started yet. And you will doubt my ability to hypnotize you when we do. But every time I raise my hand in the air, you will find yourself suddenly unable to speak until I lower it again. And every time I say your name, you will start to feel more and more tired, until you find yourself slipping back into this deep trance. Nod if you understand, John.”

John felt his chin lift up and down. It was always easy to get sucked into Sherlock’s deep voice when he launched into his fast paced monologs, but this was a bit different. John felt acutely focused on every word. And even if he didn’t catch a meaning here or there, he knew that some part of him was absorbing it entirely.

Sherlock counted to three, and the next thing John knew, he was sitting on the couch with a lit candle in front of him waiting to begin. He was nervous and anxious, and already aroused far more than was warranted, but he _had_ warned Sherlock of that ahead of time. And his anxiety was tempered by the knowledge that Sherlock, with all of his genius, was no hypnotist and unlikely to pull this off.

“How are you feeling?” asked Sherlock with a quirked eyebrow, which seemed a strange question.

“I’m fine,” John answered, stretching out his arm which seemed to have fallen asleep. “So, we’re doing this by candle, I suppose?”

Sherlock looked down at the table, and leaned over so he could blow it out with a quick puff. “No, I don’t think I’ll be needing that today.”

Oh, wonderful. Sherlock seemed to be in a particularly arrogant mood, which didn’t bode well for the success of this experiment. John felt a bit relieved at that, but it was also an enormous disappointment. He had come so close to fulfilling this particular desire of his, and he supposed that when they were done, he would have to return it to the ‘fantasy and nothing more; do not open, especially around Sherlock’ file.

John crossed his arms in front of him. “How are we doing it, then?”

“Let me ask you something first.” Sherlock pressed his fingers together in a familiar gesture. “Have you ever been hypnotized before?”

“No, I haven’t.” For some reason, Sherlock seemed to find that amusing.

“You’ve had a number of girlfriends over the years. About six, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Seven,” corrected John with a smirk. He derived way too much pleasure in pointing out Sherlock’s few mistakes.

Sherlock hummed, eyes narrowed, in response. “Fine, seven. If you’re _really_ going to count her. And you never mentioned your particular interests to any of them?”

John shifted uncomfortably. It wasn’t a topic he was keen to discuss, but he had already crossed the point of no return even agreeing to this. Divulging a bit of his personal history wouldn’t make things much worse. “I did, twice. But it never went anywhere. And one time it ended the relationship, so…” So he never brought it up again. That second rejection had been particularly painful. For such a sweet, lovely woman, Tracey did an excellent job of making John feel like a freak. Maybe that made him a bit more sympathetic toward Sherlock. Maybe that was why he could share this with him now. “I seem to have a talent for choosing the vanilla ones.”

“That’s because you don’t know how to look,” Sherlock replied. John rolled his eyes, but said nothing. “In any case, you’re _sure_ you’ve never been hypnotized before?”

“Yes,” said John, getting cross. “That’s what I said. Now can we get on wi—“

Sherlock lifted his hand as though in greeting, and John found his voice stolen from him. His eyes went wide as his mouth opened and closed like a fish. The fact that this seemed to please Sherlock greatly only increased John’s alarm. He tried shouting. He tried pushing the words ‘What have you done?’ past his throat, but no sound would emerge. And the whole time, Sherlock’s hand remained stupidly, maddeningly hovering in the air.

“I could get used to this,” Sherlock said almost to himself, now with a wide grin. “Tell me; use your reasoning. What do you think just happened?”

John couldn’t imagine, couldn’t think of a single thing that would cause him to stop speaking so abruptly, but he knew that Sherlock was behind it. That much was clear by his reaction. And why was Sherlock asking, if he couldn’t bloody well answer anyway? He cast around the room, and found a pen and some scrap paper within arm’s reach. _You did something_ , he scratched furiously, then thrust the note toward Sherlock.

“Yes, very good. Excellent. What, exactly, did I do?”

John threw up his arms and mouthed, ‘how the hell should I know?’ But then he wrote down the first word that came to mind.

_DRUGS_

Sherlock leaned in to read it then shook his head. “Interesting. But no, I didn’t drug you. Even though it may start to feel that way, John.”

John shuddered in a sudden wave of exhaustion. If he wasn’t drugged, then what? He wrote down the next possible cause he could think of for a sudden inability to speak.

_STROKE_

Sherlock sighed heavily at that one. “You’re not having a stroke. And I certainly wouldn’t be able to cause one, would I? Come on, John, think.”

John’s eyes started to flutter. How was he supposed to think when he was so bloody tired? He just wished Sherlock would lower his hand, because it was really starting to annoy him.

“Would you believe me if I said you were already hypnotized?”

John scoffed—or would have if he could make a sound. What sort of mind game was this, then?

“Why not?” Sherlock continued, still with his hand in the air. “All the evidence points to it. I’m somehow preventing you from doing a simple task, and you’re also feeling gradually sleepier, aren’t you John?”

John shook his head vigorously, because that was ridiculous. Even Sherlock couldn’t master hypnosis so suddenly, and John would know if he had. Although Sherlock was right about John’s fatigue. Did he get enough sleep last night? He rubbed his eyes a bit, feeling like he needed a jolt of caffeine.

“Have you discovered the connection with my hand yet?” asked Sherlock.

John furrowed his brow and stared at Sherlock’s hand. Yes, what was it about that bloody hand? It was doing…something…maybe if he could wake himself up he could figure it out…

“You know, John, I bet I could hypnotize you with just the sound of my voice.”

John blinked slowly, then jerked his head back up when he noticed it was falling. What nonsense, he thought. This wasn’t how hypnosis worked. He wished he could tell Sherlock, but his voice wouldn’t…and his eyes kept…

“Almost there, John. You can’t fight it, can you John? Have you reached the right conclusion, yet, John?”

For a moment he thought, yes, I think I've got it, but then Sherlock said his name once more and it dropped him all the way down into what he immediately recognized as his comfortable, pleasant trance from before.

***

Other experiments and scenarios followed. Sherlock watched John get drunk on water, made his entire body freeze on command, and tested his memory recollection. John wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed, because the nature of time seemed different under hypnosis, but he was in no rush to leave this state.

“Wonderful,” Sherlock was saying. “You’ve been so good and cooperative. You like the way that makes you feel, don’t you?”

“Yes,” John whispered, basking in the praise. He felt warm and comfortable and obedient, ready and open to whatever came next.

“Then I think you deserve a reward. Would you like that? Something to make you feel even better than you do now?”

He nodded lazily, although really, he would probably agree to anything Sherlock said to him at this point.

There was an extended pause that John hardly registered before Sherlock spoke again. Something about his voice sounded less confident than before, though it didn’t diminish its effect on John. “I noticed you’ve had an erection this entire time. Is that getting uncomfortable?”

John said, “Yes,” again and moaned very softly from the back of his throat. Now that his attention was directed to his arousal, it seemed to double. And at some point in the course of the evening, he had stopped being concerned whether Sherlock noticed or not.

“I want you to focus on your cock for just a moment. I want you to think about everything we’ve done today, and how deeply hypnotized you are, and how very much you get off on that. You may want to move your hands, but you’ll find that they are still too heavy to lift.”

He did as he was told, concentrated on his own lost control and how erotic that was, though the word ‘cock’ falling from Sherlock’s lips was a turn on in itself. Discomfort turned to throbbing as his hard-on grew, and he found little relief in the small, involuntary lifts of his hips.

“That’s right, so hard now. I think it would feel much better,” said Sherlock, “if you opened your trousers and removed your erection, wouldn’t it? Why don’t you do that now? You’ll find you are able to move your hands again, just enough to open your trousers and release your cock, before they fall heavily to your sides. You’ll feel so much better once you do.”

John’s fingers twitched to life as he unzipped his fly and nudged his pants just low enough for his cock to bob free. And as Sherlock promised, it felt wonderful. Also strange, because he knew Sherlock had never seen him exposed like this before, but that train of thought didn’t quite reach a level of concern.

“Now listen carefully.” Sherlock’s voice came out softer and faster than it had up until then. “When I count to three, you will open your eyes once more, feeling awake but remaining deeply in trance, and you will remember everything that’s happened under hypnosis so far. As soon as you open your eyes, you will begin to masturbate. In fact, you will find yourself unable to stop even if you try. You will otherwise behave normally, but you will remain seated on the couch, and you will continue to pleasure yourself until you reach orgasm. Once you do reach orgasm, you will once again feel yourself slipping back into trance, ready for more suggestions.” There was a moment’s pause. “Nod if you understand me, John.”

Yes, he understood perfectly.

“Very good. One. Two. Three.”

John’s eyes flickered open, and everything registered at once.

_Fuck._

His cock stood straight up in his lap, exposed, making John feel more naked than if he had no clothes on at all. Sherlock was still facing him, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and watching with a transfixed expression.

“You bastard,” said John through his teeth, even as he felt his right hand move toward his needy cock, like a magnet, like a hand that didn’t belong to him. _Sherlock’s hand_ , he thought. When it made contact, he couldn’t help a stifled groan because it was such a relief to finally have some friction.

And that felt so wrong because Sherlock was just sitting there, watching. He didn't look embarrassed in the slightest, either. “This is what you wanted, correct?” he asked.

Yes, absolutely yes, more than anything, John thought. But out loud he said, “You weren’t kidding. You really do get off on this manipulation thing, don’t you?” He tried to see if he could pull his hand away and recover some shred of dignity, but it only squeezed and stroked more urgently.

“ _I’m_ not the one who’s getting off right now,” said Sherlock with one of his infuriating (sexy) grins. His eyes raked over him, not looking away for a second. “Interesting.”

“Are you—are you _analyzing_ this?” John cried. The thought of Sherlock gathering data from _this_ , deducing his very thoughts from the way he wanked, sent more blood rushing south. Who knew he was an exhibitionist on top of everything else? Well, Sherlock probably knew. “I can’t believe you— _unh_ —talked me into this,” he seethed. Berating Sherlock seemed to be his only recourse for gaining a modicum of control. “God only knows what I was thinking, letting _you_ of all people—“

His words caught in his throat, and at first he wasn’t sure what had happened. But then he saw Sherlock’s raised hand, not like a greeting but more like a command to halt.

“I don’t think talking is necessary for this.”

John tried to glare, but it turned into more of a grimace, because now he had nothing to distract himself from the desire coursing through his veins. He settled on confrontational eye contact, at the least, and instead found himself getting lost in Sherlock’s gaze. He felt dirty, manipulated, defenseless, and so very, very turned on, his helplessness and arousal inexorably linked, and spiraling tighter and tighter while Sherlock watched.

He begged himself to slow down and delay his inevitable return into trance, but thinking of what was to come brought him that much closer to the edge. His hand twisted in a familiar pattern as his thoughts fixated on what Sherlock was making him do, the betrayal of his own subconscious, the sweet, terrifying freedom of letting everything go and having no say. His mind began to cloud, and whether it was the approach of orgasm or the edges of hypnosis, he couldn’t tell. His mouth fell open in a silent moan.

With one final pull and the memory of going under, John came hard enough to see stars, all over the table with the candle, over the floor. And instead of the wave of exhaustion that usually followed, his mind opened like a vortex and sucked him under.

“That’s right, sinking nice and deep,” came Sherlock’s voice from a distance. “You’ve done very well today. I think we need to do something about this mess, though. When I ask you to open you eyes again, you will find it very enjoyable and pleasant to clean up after yourself. When you’ve finished putting your clothes to rights and cleaning up all of your ejaculate, I want you to return to this seat on the couch, and at your own, comfortable pace, bring yourself out of hypnosis. You will be wide awake, refreshed as though you’ve had a long nap, and feeling wonderful all over.

“You will find it easy to remember everything that happened while you were in trance. Any command or suggestion that I’ve given you will no longer be in effect, with the exception of your cue to return to this deep, powerful state. So whenever I snap my fingers and say the word sleep, it will always bring you into hypnosis, twice as deep as you were before. Do you understand?”

With great effort, because he had never felt so tired before in his life, John nodded.

***

Awareness returned slowly, bit by bit. Feeling and energy began to flow through John’s arms and legs, and the living room reinstated itself beyond his still-closed lids. Then came the awareness of what had happened. But that was too big to process so soon. For now, he tucked those memories off to the side.

When he finally felt ready to pry open his eyes, John found Sherlock sitting in a different chair, reading a newspaper.

“Welcome back,” said Sherlock, scanning the page. “I made you some tea.”

John cast his eyes to the table in front of him, and sure enough, the candle was gone and a mug was in its place.

“ _You_ made tea?” The surprises just kept coming.

“I thought you might need it.” Sherlock folded the paper and tossed it to the side, then stood to retrieve his own cup from the mantle. “I didn’t want you getting hysterical when you awoke.”

“I’m not hysterical,” said John evenly.

“No,” said Sherlock, sitting back down and squinting at him. “You’re not, are you? Hmm. I assumed you would be more distressed by what we did.”

What they did. John didn’t feel distressed, he felt—in awe. He could hardly believe it had happened. He remembered every detail just as Sherlock had promised, but it seemed more like an erotic dream than real memories. Maybe the panic attack would come later. For now, he preferred to bask in the aftereffects of the trance, which still had him feeling serene and a bit sluggish. No doubt it was partially Sherlock’s suggestion that he would awake feeling wonderful, but it was also the glow of finally fulfilling such a long held desire. Emotions like humiliation or shame, though they nagged at the corners of his thoughts, could wait their turn.

He took a sip of the tea—not too bad—and stared ahead at the far wall. In his mind he played back the events of the evening, scene by scene. He had never experienced anything so heady before; he didn’t think he had the words to describe it. And it wasn’t just the wank at the end that had him fascinated, but the entire process from the induction to the triggers. It was the sensation of handing over his mental reins. It was powerful.

“John? Are you okay?”

John blinked, and turned back toward Sherlock. He’d almost forgotten he was in the room. “Sorry. Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for the tea, by the way, it’s lovely.”

“I have to admit,” said Sherlock, frowning, “you’re not reacting at all the way I expected you to.”

“Well then, I’ll try to be more predictable next time.” He offered a placid smile.

But Sherlock continued to regard him with concern, and it was starting to pull him out of his reverie. As the glow began to fade, what was left was the fact that Sherlock had just watched him masturbate. He had caused it. More than that, he had seen John vulnerable and exposed, and John wasn’t talking about his penis. He was in the military; he had seen and been seen naked by men before. But he’d never willingly given up so much control. And now Sherlock was making him _tea_ , and showing _concern_? Ah, yes—there was the humiliation and shame that he’d been avoiding. He didn’t want to feel so fragile and easy to take advantage of, and he didn’t want Sherlock to look down on him. Any more than he already did, at least.

John turned away from him. “You know, I seriously can’t believe you took it as far as you did. I never asked you to do that.”

Sherlock leaned back and wrapped both hands around his mug. “I didn’t break any of your rules. You didn’t say I _couldn’t_ make it sexual.”

“That’s hardly the point.”

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock countered.

John sighed, not wanting to concede that maybe it was. Sherlock was right; John could have easily prohibited anything erotic, if he hadn’t secretly hoped it would go that route. But that still didn’t explain Sherlock’s actions. “Why did you, though?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Curiosity. And as a gift for letting me poke around in your brain for a while. I can’t imagine anyone else who would actually volunteer for that.”

That made John chuckle in a self-deprecating way. “No one in their right mind, that’s for sure. Only strange perverts like me, yeah?”

A smile formed on Sherlock’s lips. “Ah, there’s that sexual hang-up I was waiting for. If you want to know whether I think less of you because you have an uncommon fetish, the answer is no. If anything, I think it makes you slightly less boring than most.”

And that, coming from Sherlock of all people, was easily the most encouraging thing John had ever heard anyone say about his kink. He blinked in surprise. “Thanks.”

“Did you enjoy it, by the way?” Sherlock leaned forward with sudden interest and put down his mug. “Was it what you expected? I am a bit curious what it must feel like, but I highly doubt I could still my brain for long enough to try it. Did it feel at all like being high?”

Before John could answer that he’d never _been_ high so he wouldn’t know, the sound of Sherlock’s mobile filled the air. One look at the caller ID, and Sherlock cried, “Finally!”

“Hello…Yes, I read all about it. Well, obviously that wasn’t the victim’s finger. No, no, you won’t get any fingerprint matches…yes. Right. Excellent, I’ll be right there.”

He had hardly hung up before his coat was on and he was standing by the door. “Coming, John?”

“It’s late,” John replied, already pushing himself to his feet.

Sherlock just grinned. “Dismembering murderers aren’t sleeping. Why should we?”

Sherlock dashed down the stairs, and John followed right behind, wondering if it was possible that things hadn’t changed between them at all.

***

It had been four long days, and Sherlock had not yet solved the case. His single-minded focus was beginning to take its toll; he looked paler than usual, with just visible bags under his eyes. It was horribly insensitive that John should be more concerned about a malnourished and sleep-deprived Sherlock than the murder victim with the missing fingers, but there it was. Sherlock wouldn’t take care of himself properly until he’d found the solution, and John hoped he would find it soon.

They were both standing in the flat, examining the collage of evidence and facts that Sherlock was so fond of spreading across the wall. Crime scene photos, police reports, suspect testimony—John tried to draw connections between them, but everything he offered was met with dismissal and frustration.

“It’s staring right at me,” Sherlock muttered. His hands were pressed together under his chin, and the sleeve that slipped down his forearm revealed one of several nicotine patches he had earlier applied. “What am I missing? _What?_ ”

John pointed to one of the photos, but before he could mention something that Sherlock had probably already noticed anyway, he was cut off by an angry, “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to, and I am trying to think.”

But John was sleep deprived too, and feeling testy. “I was only going to say—“

“ _John_ ,” said Sherlock in a booming voice. “This is very, very important. I need you to look at me.”

John turned to him dutifully, expecting to be yelled at, and was confused when instead Sherlock stared him in the eye and placed a strong hand on his shoulder.

“Sleep,” he said with the accompanying snap of his fingers.

There was barely a moment to register surprise before the command took effect, and John felt his whole self, body and mind, loosing some unexpected battle. He tried in vain to keep his eyelids from fluttering closed, but Sherlock repeated the trigger, and they dropped like weights. The hand on his shoulder kept him from tipping forward, and a voice that was coaxing him deeper and deeper was also explaining how easy it was to stand on his own while remaining so very relaxed and drowsy. Sherlock was right; it was easy to straighten his back without loosing any of this peaceful bliss. John righted himself, though the hand remained a comforting pressure on his shoulder, and waited with an open mind.

“John. Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” he exhaled.

“Very good. In just a moment, when I remove my hand, I will continue to talk but the words will not be important. You can simply stand here and let the sounds wash over you, and you’ll find that the sound of my voice will bring you deeper and deeper every moment. You will not have to pay attention to the meaning of my words until I place my hand on your shoulder again, and then you will know that I’m talking directly to you. Do you understand?”

John nodded, and a moment later the hand from his shoulder was gone.

He drifted for he didn’t know how long. Sherlock’s voice was a constant background buzzing, soothing as white noise, like listening to another language or the sound of the ocean. Although John remained standing, he soon felt his body gently rocking back and forth, ‘up’ being a difficult direction to discern with eyes closed. He didn’t fight it, didn’t let the unsteadiness bother him. Nothing bothered him. Everything was calm.

Minutes later—or hours perhaps—the warm weight on his shoulder returned.

“On three, you can open your eyes, feeling wide awake and refreshed. One, feeling the energy return to your body, two, remembering everything while becoming more aware of your surroundings, and three. Wide awake.”

John opened his eyes in a daze. What just happened? Did Sherlock actually hypnotize him, out of the blue, without warning, and set him adrift for who knew how long? And was it right that so much blood should go rushing to his cock at the thought?

Sherlock was grinning like a child on his birthday. “It was so blindingly obvious! Of _course_ the fingers were removed. How else could the killer steal those diamonds in Germany?”

“You—you solved it?” asked John with difficulty. He could barely think straight, he was so hard. Sherlock had just…and then he’d… John closed his eyes, briefly, and tried not to moan.

“I need to tell Lestrade.” Sherlock grabbed his coat and rushed to the door, this time without waiting for John to follow. Soon, John found himself completely alone in the flat, sweat forming from the fiery heat of his skin, about to come in his trousers without being touched.

Without hesitation, John raced to the bathroom, dropped his trousers and pants in one motion, and positioned himself over the toilet. With one hand he braced his shaking frame against the wall. With the other, he pulled on his swollen cock, and allowed himself the privilege of making as many desperate noises as he liked. He remembered the seductive confidence in Sherlock’s eyes just before he’d snapped his fingers, thought of those long minutes while Sherlock talked, deduced, solved, while he stood mindlessly by, swaying in Sherlock’s control. It was a reminder of what Sherlock could do now, at any time, any place. Without notice. John was only ever a snap and a word away from being Sherlock’s puppet.

It didn’t take long before John came with a cry. Once spent, he flushed the toilet then slumped back against the opposite wall, not even bothering to lift his pants. He stood like that for some time, his non-sticky hand pressed against his forehead. The smell of sex seemed to fill the bathroom. Sherlock would probably notice; but then, Sherlock would probably expect it.

John needed to clear his head. He needed a shower.

Stepping under the warm jets of water did wonders for untangling his thoughts. And the first thing John thought as he scrubbed at his skin was that he wanted more. He needed it. These two times, the second one so brief, were not enough, and it was becoming clear that fulfilling his fantasy did not satiate it, but instead fueled his craving.

They hadn’t discussed their little “experiment” past their conversation when John had first come out of trance. They’d been too busy with this new case. So they never talked about whether it would happen again, or how Sherlock felt about it, or how John felt about it for that matter. He still didn’t know how he felt about it, even though he thought about it constantly. The murder and his own work were decent distractions, but at every lull in his busy life his thoughts would drift, and they would inevitably return to that evening under hypnosis. In bed, he could think of nothing else. While wanking—well, that went without saying. He was even starting to dream about the things Sherlock could do to him, things he wanted to be done.

And now this. So offhand on Sherlock’s part, but so very intense, and also intoxicating. Addictive. A simple thing that meant so much to him.

John tilted back his head and let the water splash over his face. Maybe it was wrong to play sex games with someone who didn’t find it sexy. Maybe it was wrong to do so with a man when he still considered himself straight. Or a flatmate. Or a friend. Or a sociopath. Maybe there were a million sensible reasons why he should put an end to this immediately and go find himself a nice girlfriend who would probably be perfectly vanilla and safe and just barely enough to curb his lust. It was a solution that had worked just fine up until now.

But now—now things were different, he realized as he turned off the water. None of those reasonable objections mattered. He’d wanted this all of his life, and now he had it, and he felt he deserved it. He knew that Sherlock was using him, putting him under like tucking something distracting into a drawer, but he _wanted_ to be used, dammit. He didn’t care whether that was right or wrong. It just _was_.

He toweled himself dry, then wrapped it around himself and scooped up his clothing on the way to his room. An early night wouldn’t hurt; he was bloody exhausted. And he could always talk to Sherlock in the morning. In fact, he was determined to.

***

Despite John’s resolve, several days passed before the opportunity to broach the subject arose. And like the first time, it happened once Sherlock was sufficiently bored.

They both sat in the living room, John reading a book while Sherlock messed about on his violin. He never seemed to play any actual songs, which was a shame because John would have enjoyed a bit of music around the flat. Instead he plucked at the strings, played a random succession of chords, then broke off into a lovely melody that merely hinted at his virtuosity before it ended with an intentional dissonant crash.

John winced and looked up from his novel. “Do you have to play it like that? What’s wrong with sticking to a nice tune?”

“Sounds dull,” Sherlock replied with all the petulance of a teenager.

“Tell me,” said John, “do you always take out your boredom on inanimate objects?”

Sherlock played another painful squeal on his instrument. “Why, would you rather I take it out on people?”

And that was as good an opening as any. If John did this correctly, he could find himself hypnotized by the end of the evening, and many more evenings to come. It was enough to give him an excited thrill in his chest. He made a point of marking his page and putting down his book before answering, “Actually, that’s exactly what I was hoping.”

 _That_ got Sherlock’s attention. He lowered the violin from his chin and narrowed his eyes at John. “Is that an invitation?”

“Not like you to ask questions you already know the answers to,” said John, as coyly as he dared.

Sherlock blinked. Then, to John’s surprise and disappointment, he once again turned away from him and plucked at a few strings. “I don’t believe you.”

John was brought up short. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to require much coaxing, considering his cavalier use of hypnosis just a few days ago. “Don’t believe…don’t believe what, exactly? That I don’t enjoy it? Because I think it’s quite obvious that I do.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Sherlock, standing abruptly. He placed the violin off to the side and began pacing the room. Unless it was John’s imagination, he sounded downright despondent. “I don’t believe it’s what you actually want. Not with me, at least. It was fun the first time, and useful the second, but I doubt you want to turn this into a regular arrangement.” Sherlock placed both hands on the back of the chair he’d been sitting on and looked at him pointedly. “You can’t even bring yourself to say what it is out loud. That’s telling enough.”

John was shocked by Sherlock’s sudden reluctance. He may be a genius and right on most counts, but if he thought this wasn’t what John wanted then he was very, very mistaken. Yes, John didn’t like to say it out loud because he still found it embarrassing, but if Sherlock needed to hear it as proof, then John would bloody well provide him proof.

He leaned forward, fixing Sherlock with as confident a stare as he could manage, and took a deep breath. “Fine. This is what I want. I want you to _hypnotize_ me.” He made sure to enunciate the word slowly. “I want you to take control for a few minutes, a few hours, whatever you like. I wouldn’t complain if you made it erotic, but that’s not what’s important to me. Giving you my free will for just a short period of time is what’s important. And I’m giving it to _you_ because I trust you. Also, I want to remember every single detail afterwards. And I want this to happen over, and over, and over again.” By the end of his list, John’s heart was pounding, partially from the humiliation of being so open about the things he needed—things he’d never said so frankly to another person before—but also from exhilaration. The honesty of it felt liberating. And as always, it was accompanied by the tightness of arousal.

There was silence for a moment before John realized he was witnessing something very rare: a Sherlock who was speechless. He was still standing behind the chair, now looking at John intently, with an expression John had seen him wear when faced with a particularly challenging puzzle. “Well?” John prompted, unnerved by his silence.

Sherlock swallowed. “You shouldn’t trust me,” he said, quietly like a whisper.

John’s lips quirked just a fraction. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But I do anyway. And I like to think I’m usually a pretty good judge of character. Anyway, you haven’t broken any of my rules yet.” Although if he had, John wouldn’t even realize it, would he? He supposed it was just another sign of his insane trust in Sherlock, a trust that he didn't have an explanation for but believed in all the same. He grinned. “Not that I’m aware of, at least.”

“And you’re sure that this is what you want?” Sherlock pressed.

John nodded. “You’ll have to trust _me_ on that one.”

There was another pause before Sherlock began to smile, and his eyes seemed to glitter. “Okay then,” he agreed.

He walked around the chair and sat on the cushion next to John so that they were facing each other. Then he offered his hand. It seemed rather formal to shake hands on their kinky agreement, but John found his hand slipping into Sherlock’s by instinct. In one fluid motion, Sherlock lifted it directly in front of John’s face so that he was staring into his own palm, a very disorienting sensation when he’d been expecting a handshake, and began speaking in those soft, seductive tones that John was already beginning to associate with trance.

“I want you to pick a spot on your palm and focus on it. You may notice that the lines of your hand begin to blur, and it’s okay if they do. You’ll just continue to stare at your palm, and feel it starting to relax you, taking you deeper and deeper. Now, I want you to imagine that there is a magnetic force between your hand and your face, and in a moment it will begin drawing your hand closer. As it does, you’ll find yourself sinking deeper into the relaxed state you should be very familiar with by now. Just let your hand drift closer and closer to your face, at its own pace. There’s no rush. Allow yourself to enjoy the process, feeling more and more relaxed and open as your hand is magnetically drawn toward your face of its own accord.”

At this point Sherlock released his light grip on John’s hand, but the hand remained suspended where he left it, about half a foot from his nose. And it did seem to be drawing closer, by imperceptible increments. Somewhere John recognized that he was already in a light trance, but knowing that and doing something about it were two different things. Not that he wanted to do anything about it, other than sink deeper into submission. As soon as he thought that, his hand moved just a fraction nearer.

“That’s very good, John. Just continue as you are, as slow or as fast as feels comfortable. In a few moments, as soon as your hand touches your face, you’re going to feel a profound wave of relaxation from the top of your head down to your toes. When that happens, you can simply let your eyes close and your hand will drop into your lap, taking you even deeper. That’s right. You probably remember how it feels to sink into a deep, peaceful trance, don’t you? I can see that you do. And you know that when your hand touches your face, it will take you all the way down into that hypnotic state that you love, your eyes will drop closed, and your hand will simply fall into your lap, taking you even deeper. Excellent. Feel the magnetic pull becoming even stronger, and by now you know it’s inevitable. As soon as it touches, your subconscious will take over, and you’ll drop all the way down into trance.”

His hand was so close now, making it impossible to focus his eyes correctly. It approached him like the approach of sleep, like those nights when he stayed up to help Sherlock with a case, and the next morning found himself unable to keep his eyes from slipping closed. They were practically closed now, but he held them open to watch the hand that no longer felt like his own come ever nearer. Almost there. He knew, with overwhelming certainty, that there was nothing he could do to prevent it. His thoughts stilled. His entire world was narrowed down to the palm of his hand and Sherlock’s words.

And then he felt the contact of skin on skin, a fingertip on his forehead, followed by the press of his fingers and his palm against his nose. He allowed his eyes to shut. His fingers slid down his cheeks and came to a rest on his thigh. He drifted deeper, grateful to return to this familiar place, his thoughts revolving around Sherlock’s commands.

They went through several deepening exercises, some from before and some that were new. John didn’t need to do anything but listen and let Sherlock take him where he wanted to go.

Then John opened his eyes. Sherlock was still seated next to him with an expression that was difficult to read, perhaps because there were so many emotions mixed into it: authority, curiosity, possessiveness, amusement.

“Hello, John,” he said.

“Hello…” John replied cautiously.

“And how do you feel right now?”

John thought about it for a moment. “Pretty good, actually. Rested, I guess.”

“Do you feel awake?”

 _Ah, here it comes_ , John thought. There was no mistaking such a leading question, and he lifted an eyebrow. “I feel wide awake, yeah, but something tells me you’re going to say otherwise.”

Sherlock grinned appreciatively. “Right you are. I want you to take a look at your hand, John.”

“My…hand? Which one?” He looked down at his right, flexing his fingers to ensure that everything was in working order, then looked to his left. Only then did he realize that his left hand, to his complete surprise, was floating. It hovered, as though tied at the wrist, at just about the height of his chin, directly over his left knee. He experienced a momentary wave of disorientation. As far as he could tell, he wasn’t expending any effort keeping it there, and he could see that there was nothing holding it. He tried to pull it back down, but his efforts dissipated around the vicinity of his shoulder.

“It’s floating,” said John, bewildered.

Sherlock sighed, but it was a teasing sound. “Care to take your observations a little further? Do you know why it’s floating?”

“Because…I’m still hypnotized?” John ventured.

“Yes, exactly. Whenever you see your hand floating in the air, it will let you know that you are still very deeply hypnotized, even when it feels as though you’re wide awake. So although your conscious mind is engaged at the moment, I can still issue commands directly to your subconscious at any time.” Sherlock gave a pleased little smirk. “How does that feel?”

John leaned back in his seat and stared at his left hand, apparently a visual reminder that he was still under Sherlock’s control. How did it feel? He couldn’t begin to describe it. Painfully arousing to start, and also deeply satisfying, on an almost spiritual level. With anyone else, this sort of susceptibility might induce panic, but with Sherlock he felt nothing but a blissful calm. The hand that levitated before him felt like a gift. He couldn’t take his eyes off of it.

“It feels fucking amazing,” he finally replied, his voice breaking.

“I’m very glad to hear that,” said Sherlock. “Now what should we do first?”

***

Sherlock’s imagination seemed to have no limit. And he liked to keep John guessing.

Which was fine by John, because it made their foray into frequent hypnosis that much more thrilling. Their games ranged from the simple to the surreal. One time, John couldn’t remember his name for the entire afternoon. On another occasion he ate half of a raw onion, thinking it was an apple—it took days afterward to neutralize his breath.

Then Sherlock would test the limits, like the unsettling and humiliating experience when John _actually believed_ he was Sherlock’s pet dog. For maybe half an hour he was on his hands and knees, licking Sherlock’s hand, or curled up at his feet. He responded to the commands ‘sit’ and ‘speak’ with pride and loyalty. He _barked_ for fuck’s sake. When he came to, still on the ground, John made it clear that he never wanted to do that again. It was just too unnerving, even though the debasement left him more turned on than usual.

Sherlock’s reply had been, “Pity. You make an endearing puppy.”

What they did together often depended on Sherlock’s mood, and sometimes his intentions were selfish. There were days, for example, when Sherlock needed to be alone with his thoughts. On those days John would come home and hear the snap before he could even take off his jacket. There were no games involved; Sherlock would simply lead John by the hand to a chair and seat him there to drift for an undetermined period. More often than not, John would eventually wake on his own, then run off to relieve a desperate erection. And he would know not to bother Sherlock for the rest of the evening.

But there were other times when Sherlock was surprisingly attentive. John would be banging around the kitchen after a particularly shit day at the surgery, frustrated that they’d run out of his favorite tea, and sharing some choice expletives with the test tubes that got in his way. That’s when Sherlock would look up from whatever he was (or wasn’t) working on, and say, “John. Come over here and sit down.” And John would breathe a sigh of relief, knowing what was coming.

He never knew what sort of induction Sherlock would decide to use. Often it was the ‘sleep’ trigger, the fastest way to reach his subconscious. But John preferred the slow inductions, the ones where he could actually feel himself letting go, gradually, bit by bit, to the sound of Sherlock’s enticing voice. It was rarely the same induction twice. Sometimes he would focus on a spot on the wall, or Sherlock’s finger, or Sherlock’s quicksilver eyes. Or he would press hard as he could on Sherlock’s hand, and suddenly the hand would drop down, taking his mind with it.

Because he enjoyed them so much, John didn’t tell Sherlock that, after a while, the inductions hardly mattered. He had become adept at bringing himself into trance, like a practiced skill. All Sherlock had to do, really, was let John know he was about to be hypnotized, and John would be out like a light no matter what followed. It was a little frightening that Sherlock held so much power over him, but John relished the danger.

And it helped that Sherlock never broke his initial three rules. So as they tried new things, new rules were added. First of all, John resolved that more than three times a week was excessive. There were things that needed doing, and he couldn’t exactly spend all of his free time in trance. He said this as though he were limiting Sherlock, though really he wanted to keep his own temptation in check.

Then there was the time that Sherlock put him under and told him to go wash the dishes. After that came the rule that there was to be _no_ hypnotizing John into doing chores. Sherlock could either ask politely, or bloody well do it himself.

But for the most part, John got just what he wanted, and on a regular basis. He walked around in a daze, feeling complete, hardly believing that after so many years of ignoring his desires, or keeping them closely guarded, he had managed to find himself in such a breathtaking arrangement. It was the most impossible thing; he could barely wrap his head around it. Or maybe it was most natural thing in the world. Mundane, even.

And when Sherlock wasn’t hypnotizing him, their lives were the same as ever. Sherlock took on new cases, solved them, and John followed one step behind with sarcastic remarks and admiration. Sherlock, thank heaven, didn’t treat him any differently. As for John—well, if he began to see Sherlock in a new light, he tried not to let it show.

***

There wasn’t always a sexual component to the hypnosis. In fact, more often than not it was completely chaste. But when it did turn erotic it was electrifying.

“…one, two, and three, eyes open.”

John blinked. He was still sitting at the kitchen table, and the Chinese takeaway they had ordered was still hot. Sometimes in the middle of hypnosis—and he knew that he was still in trance, even though he felt perfectly aware—he had difficulty consciously remembering what instructions Sherlock had planted. When he was fully awake at the end, the memories would all fall into place, but at the moment he couldn’t quite recall Sherlock’s suggestions, and that made him nervous. They had been playing these games for about a month; they had yet to reach the end of Sherlock’s creativity.

“Am I allowed to eat, now?” asked John. He usually fell back on being cheeky when he didn’t know what was coming.

“Bon appetit,” said Sherlock.

John poked his food with a chopstick before cautiously bringing it to his mouth, the onion incident still fresh in his mind. To his relief, it tasted like perfectly normal chicken. He just hoped he wouldn’t wake up later to find he’d been chewing on cat food or something. He paused to pull his jumper over his head and toss it to the side; the room was too warm for it.

“How does it taste?” asked Sherlock, with a worrying smile.

“Like it usually does. I’m not going to find out you’ve poisoned it or something, am I?”

Sherlock scoffed and picked at his own food. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said John, taking another bite and kicking off one of his shoes under the table. “I’m sure you could gather some good data from it. Maybe you could measure the effects of arsenic on fingernail growth or something.” A moment later, the other shoe followed suit.

“That’s idiotic,” said Sherlock.

John grinned. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Another few bites later, and John found that removing his shoes hadn’t been enough. He leaned under the table to remove first one, then the other sock, feeling better once he did.

“So,” said John, straightening back up. “It has to be related to dinner. Otherwise you wouldn’t knock me out right before eating.”

Sherlock always loved it when John tried to guess what was happening. Sure enough, Sherlock beamed and waited for him to continue. But John knew from experience that it was surprisingly difficult to be observant when there was a whole part of his brain working against him. Sometimes he could feel around the edges, take note of the external circumstances or Sherlock’s reactions, but the actual command he was following, though clear as day, often eluded him.

“I don’t think you switched out my food, because you tried that already, and you don’t usually do the same thing twice,” John guessed.

“Very good reasoning,” said Sherlock. “Although you can’t discount it entirely. Why don’t you keep eating and find out?”

John eyed him suspiciously and brought another careful mouthful to his lips. He was about halfway done with his meal; maybe whatever it was would kick in once he had finished? He loosened his belt to make room for the rest, and then ended up slipping it off entirely and dropping it to the floor.

“The food’s not making me sleepy,” John considered after a bit. That was one of Sherlock’s favorites. “It’s not making me drunk. I’m talking normally, as far as I can tell.” He narrowed his eyes as he took in Sherlock’s pleased expression. “It’s doing something, though, isn’t it?”

“I think once you’re done with your meal you’ll have it figured out.”

So John took another bite, and another. And it wasn’t until his shirt was unbuttoned halfway that he finally looked down and realized what his fingers were doing.

His eyes went wide, and his breath hitched. _Oh._ It was definitely not normal that he should be fully unbuttoning his shirt right now. His brain caught up with him and noticed that his jumper, shoes, socks, and belt were already on the floor, and that wasn’t normal either. He looked up at Sherlock as he shrugged out of the shirt entirely, dropping it beside his chair. “You can’t be serious.”

“Don’t worry,” said Sherlock, “you’ll enjoy this.” He tucked into his meal as though there were nothing unusual about John sitting across from him, half nude.

There was nothing John could do but continue with his dinner. Stalling wouldn’t prevent whatever it was Sherlock had planned. He was flush with embarrassment as he again picked up his chopsticks, and he knew Sherlock could see it all across his exposed chest. When he stopped eating so that he could unzip his trousers, he let out a small groan. This was insane. He couldn’t prevent his hips from lifting as he slid his trousers to the floor, and he couldn’t prevent the relief he felt when he was left in just his underpants.

He stared at what was left of his meal, though by now he was so turned on he could hardly see straight. His cock was visibly tenting the thin material of his pants. He thought about the tiny bit of food left in the takeaway box, and he thought about the only article of clothing he was still wearing. It wasn’t difficult to deduce what came next.

“Aren’t you going to finish?” asked Sherlock.

John took a deep breath, and went for it. It was difficult to operate chopsticks when he was so painfully distracted, so he eventually lifted the box to his lips and scooped up the remaining rice. Then he dropped the empty box onto the table.

He tried to stop himself, he really did. He tried to keep his fingers from hooking into his waistband, tried to keep his arse from rising off the seat, tried not to inch his pants lower so that the fabric brushed against his hard-on. He shut his eyes when his cock bounced free, then his pants were at his knees, and then they were on the floor with the rest of his dignity.

He opened his eyes again and glared at Sherlock, who was clearly amused. Was there nothing that shook that man’s composure?

“Now what?” John asked.

“Sit on the couch and wait for me,” was Sherlock’s authoritative order. John automatically obeyed, not because of anything planted in his subconscious, but because it felt right to do what Sherlock commanded.

When John stood, he lost the somewhat protective cover of the kitchen table, and walked completely naked across the living room. He eased himself onto the couch and thought about stroking himself—he was in desperate need of contact—but he knew Sherlock wouldn’t like that, so he kept his hands pinned to his sides and stared straight ahead. He could hear Sherlock behind him, getting up from the table and then looking for something in the bathroom.

A moment later Sherlock reappeared and tossed a towel at John, which he caught. A towel probably meant one thing, and John’s face burned in anticipation. Sherlock took a seat across from him, and without warning (when did he ever bother with a warning?) dropped John back into trance.

“In a moment, when I ask you to open your eyes, I want you to fuck the towel that you are holding. Everything will feel ten times more sensitive than usual, won’t it? But when you look down, you won’t see a towel in your hands. You’ll see the head of someone very attractive, with their mouth around your cock. Just let your subconscious provide the details of whom that person may be. In fact, I wonder if you can imagine that person right now? In your mind’s eye, visualize the person from whom you would like to receive oral sex. And I want you to nod when you can see that person clearly.”

A face swam into view, a beautiful face with vague features that slowly came into focus. Dark hair, light eyes. No, dark eyes, and full lips curved in a smirk. Finally the face sharpened enough for John put a name to it, or at least a name that was not her actual name, but would have to do. He nodded.

“Good.” Sherlock drew the word out slowly. “Again, when you open your eyes on the count of three, it will not feel as though you are fucking a towel. It will feel as though the person whom you’ve imagined is giving you oral sex, except all of the sensations will be multiplied by ten. You will not even notice that I am still in the room with you. And once you’ve reached orgasm, you will sink back into this deep, relaxed state. Nod once more if you understand.”

John’s head tipped forward.

“Excellent. One, two three.”

John opened his eyes, and the face he had imagined was there, in the room with him, the one not called Anthea, and she was already stretching open her lips to wrap them around his throbbing cock. He’d had plenty of blowjobs in his life, but none of them had ever felt like this. Her mouth was warm and slick, sending jolts through every nerve ending, as though his entire body were as sensitized as an open wound. Her hair was soft under his fingers, and now and then she looked up at him with those seductive doe eyes. He was hardly aware of his own whimpering noises as he pounded into her throat.

It was no time at all before John was close to the edge, but then a voice somewhere was telling him to take his time, to try to enjoy it for as long as possible. So his pace slowed down, and he tried to pull back on his arousal, a near impossible task. Especially when the voice was saying other things as well, encouraging things, things that slipped right past his ears and into his thoughts.

That’s when the face began to slip away, to change. Like a dream, Anthea’s image began to shimmer, and then it wasn’t her anymore. The mouth that engulfed him was set in a pale, lean face. The hair turned short and curled. Blue, icy eyes looked up at him, and they were no longer coy but commanding, in charge, making it clear that sucking John off was _not_ John’s decision.

In Sherlock’s mouth, John felt utterly helpless, and he couldn’t hold out any longer. He came straight down Sherlock’s throat, gasping, drowning, and then blanked out the moment he was spent.

***

It was some time before John awoke fully out of trance, his memories sliding one by one into place. This was Sherlock’s usual practice, allowing him to wake naturally and slowly, instead of bringing him straight out at once. He suspected it gave them both a chance to recover. When he opened his eyes, he found that, fortunately, he was fully clothed, and the towel had been taken away. He wasn’t surprised to find a cup of tea before him; that had also become routine, whenever Sherlock tried something that might potentially upset John. And yeah—this definitely qualified.

Sherlock was already sipping his own tea, and watching John emerge into consciousness, but John avoided his eye contact. He didn’t think he could ever see those eyes the same way again. Or that mouth, oh god.

“Well?” asked Sherlock. “What did you think?”

Sherlock had no idea how loaded that question was. What did John think? He thought that it was damn lucky he didn’t have a habit of calling out his partner’s name in bed. He thought that his subconscious might be trying to betray him. He thought that there might be something seriously wrong with him.

But Sherlock was waiting for an answer, and John couldn’t tell him any of those things. “It was intense,” he decided to mumble into his mug.

Sherlock frowned. “I thought you would enjoy it. Did it go wrong? Were you able to imagine there was a person present?”

John swallowed and briefly closed his eyes. “Oh yes, it worked perfectly.” He hoisted himself to his feet, tea still in hand. “Sorry. I think I need some time to process this one. I’ll, er, be in my room.”

As he left, John felt Sherlock’s eyes on his back. He wondered if Sherlock knew. He wondered if Sherlock could see straight through him, straight through his thoughts, and into the darker regions of his mind where even he was reluctant to look.

***

“John,” called Sherlock from downstairs, “are you doing anything important? No, of course you aren’t,” he answered himself. “Would you come here please?”

John lay on his bed and grinned. It had been some time since Sherlock last hypnotized him. They’d both been distracted by his latest case, which had just recently ended in a tense standoff with a charismatic cult leader and three devoted teenagers. As was usual during a case, John had been running on very little sleep, and he had gone to his room with the intention of napping. But he was still far too keyed up to drift off. Maybe Sherlock felt equally restless. He had been strangely quiet on the cab ride home, as though continuing to work out a problem, even though the case was over and done with. A spot of hypnosis could be good for both of them.

John swung his legs over the bed and made his way downstairs. Of course, Sherlock could just need to use his mobile or something, but by now John had a way of knowing when he was about to be hypnotized. He stepped into the living room, already enjoying the warmth in his groin, as he took in the sight of Sherlock’s slender frame spread out on the sofa.

Since the imaginary blowjob incident, John had come to uneasy terms with the fact that okay, yes, he was attracted to Sherlock. Uneasy, because he worried how Sherlock would react if he ever found out. Assuming he didn’t already know. And of course, uneasy because of that whole being straight thing. As far as John could remember, he had never been attracted to a man before. But then, he’d never received regular mind-blowing orgasms from a man before, so there was probably a correlation. And Sherlock never struck John as particularly masculine or feminine anyway. He was, however, brilliant, creative, and dominant. And that was attractive on anyone.

“Did you want something?” John asked. He always enjoyed pretending like he _didn’t_ know what was about to come.

Sherlock took a moment to finish his thought, then jumped to his feet and said, “Yes, I did.”

He placed a hand on John’s shoulder. That let John know that they’d be doing this standing up; the hand was there to keep him from tipping forward. It was followed by Sherlock’s instant ‘sleep’ trigger, which let John know, as he felt his eyes slip shut and his body sink into immediate relaxation, that this would be an experiment, not a game. Sherlock only used the long inductions when he was feeling playful.

Sherlock lifted first one, then the other of John’s arms, letting them each drop back against John’s thigh and sending a wave of calm coursing through him. John felt himself leaning heavily into the hand at his shoulder.

“Today I want you to go deeper than you ever have before. Do you think you can do that for me? Already you feel yourself becoming more and more relaxed, first your body and then your mind. That’s right, that’s very good John.

“In a moment, I’m going to ask you to start counting down from the number one hundred. In between each number, I want you to say the words, ‘deeper and deeper.’ And every time you say these words, you’ll feel them bringing you twice as deep as you were before. Every number you say, and every word, will take you further down into relaxation. You can start counting when I remove my hand from your shoulder, and you’ll find it easy to remain standing where you are. You’ll continue to count until I touch your shoulder again, at which point you may find that the numbers will just fade away. So whatever number comes next when I touch your shoulder will just vanish from your thoughts, taking you even deeper than before. Start counting now.”

The weight was lifted from John’s shoulder, and he began counting as instructed. “One hundred…deeper and deeper…ninety-nine…deeper and deeper…ninety-eight…” He body started swaying gently like it did whenever he stood during trance, but that was okay. He also found it easy to ignore the distant rummaging noises that were coming from elsewhere in the flat. In this state, he had no trouble pouring his entire focus into a single task, and the task at hand was watching the numbers as they floated before his mind’s eye. “…ninety-one, deeper and deeper…”

He’d reached eighty-four before Sherlock once again touched his shoulder, and whatever might have come after eighty-four just evaporated into nothing.

“You’re doing so well,” said Sherlock. John always loved how being a hypnotist forced Sherlock to be encouraging and complimenting; praise from Sherlock was normally rare at best. “As you sink further, I wonder if you can imagine a ruler placed next to your mind, with the number one at the top and ten at the bottom? One representing your normal, wide awake and conscious state, and ten representing the deepest trance. And as you drift down, I want you to take a look at that ruler, and tell me what number you can see.”

John let the image form in his mind, and saw the numbers one through nine stretching out far above him, like looking up through a pool of water. He dropped himself slightly deeper, then reported what was before him in a mumble. “Ten.”

“Good. That’s very good.” Sherlock paused. “In a moment, John, I’m going to place a gun in your hand. You feel very comfortable with guns, don’t you? It will be very easy to hold this gun like you normally would, without firing it. Will that be okay with you?”

John nodded, and wondered vaguely where this was going. A worrying doubt began to form, but he decided to let that go. Then he felt the cool metal pressed to his hand, and he wrapped his fingers around it with familiarity.

“That’s right, John. Now, I want you to listen to me very carefully.” An unnecessary instruction, since John was already locked onto Sherlock’s words with rapt attention. “Very soon, when I count to three, I want you to open your eyes. You can talk and act like you normally would, but you’ll still remain in this deep hypnotic state. And when you open your eyes, the first thing you’ll see will be me. But it won’t look like me, will it? No, when you look at me, I want you to see someone else entirely.” Sherlock paused again, and John waited to find out whom he would imagine in Sherlock’s place.

“When you open your eyes and look at me, what you’ll see instead is Moriarty. I know that your imagination is so powerful, you’ll have no trouble believing that Moriarty is actually in the room with you, and you’ll behave accordingly. Do you think you can do that for me?”

The doubt was back. John wasn’t sure he agreed to this game, and furrowed his brow in concern. But still, he nodded his consent because it was what Sherlock wanted him to do, and he wanted to please Sherlock. He wasn’t ready to leave his pleasant, cooperative state, even if the circumstances were becoming strange.

So Sherlock counted to three, and John opened his eyes.

It took a moment for the illusion to assert itself. John didn’t _want_ Moriarty to stand before him, and what he saw at first was almost a double exposure: Sherlock and Moriarty occupying the same space, while John’s emotions swung from hatred to relief and back. He blinked a few times, and then it was Moriarty, solid and menacing, and John was holding a gun in his hand. Raising the gun to aim at Moriarty’s head came automatically.

“How did you get in here?” John shouted, awash in confusion, but trying not to let it interfere with his focus. His eyes flicked down to his chest, looking for the red laser of a sniper, even though he was in his own flat and there was nowhere for a sniper to hide.

“That’s not important,” said Moriarty—no—yes, it was Moriarty’s snide voice, and John’s insides crawled. “This is.” That’s when Moriarty raised his own gun to point back at John. Except John recognized the weapon. No. Oh god. It was Sherlock’s gun, in Moriarty’s hand, and panic flooded him like ice water.

“Where’s Sherlock?” he growled. “What have you done with him?”

Moriarty looked momentarily surprised, and that only served to increase John’s confusion. There was something wrong about this. Why was he standing here, with a gun, with Moriarty, in his flat? John’s brain whirred faster than usual, adrenaline kicking it into overdrive like it did whenever he found himself in a life-threatening situation, heightening his concentration so that he could note every detail of his surroundings without losing sight of Moriarty’s actions down to the slightest movement of his trigger finger. So why did it feel as though something important, something huge, were evading him? Where was Sherlock?

Moriarty sighed. “Fine. I killed Sherlock. Is that what you need to hear?”

John forgot his confusion. Rage, scorching rage, and despair blinded him for only an instant. Then a wave of calm focus overtook him as he aimed his weapon between Moriarty’s eyes.

And that’s when reality seemed to buckle. John snapped back to himself with a gasp and stared in horror as he remembered that Sherlock was standing before him, had been there the entire time, that it had never been Moriarty, that he was pointing a gun at Sherlock. He staggered backward a step or two, foolishly dropping the gun to the floor.

Sherlock lowered his own weapon and looked at him in concern. “John?”

It was the first time that John had ever forcibly taken himself out of trance, and it was not pleasant. The harsh return to reality was nothing like his usual slow emergence. And he found that the adrenaline from a moment ago was still coursing through him, his heart still pounding at an increased rate. He looked down at his left hand: trembling like a leaf, though it had been perfectly still during his imagined standoff a moment ago.

Then he looked back up at Sherlock and roared, “What the _fuck_ was that?”

“An experiment,” Sherlock replied, his voice small. “Don’t worry, the guns weren’t loaded.”

“That’s hardly the point,” said John, still shouting at the top of his lungs. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to get the image out of his mind, the sight of own hands aiming his own weapon at Sherlock’s face. It made him want to vomit. It wasn’t the violence or the danger that bothered him, but the fact that he had come so close to harming someone he loved. No matter that he brought himself out of it—and thinking of it now, he knew that he never would have gone through with it no matter how strong the suggestions had been. But the experience still shook him to the core, and touched on a very real and buried fear that he was a dangerous man. A man trained to kill. A man who _had_ killed, and Sherlock knew that, and had tried to recreate it as though John himself could be turned into a human weapon. It hadn’t worked, it never would have worked, but…what if it had?

Sherlock remained stock-still and started to explain. “I had to know the effectiveness of brainwashing. I needed to find out if a person with strong morals could ever be persuaded to murder.” His voice sounded almost shaky, something John had never heard before, but John wasn’t about to feel sorry for the bastard.

“Well, find yourself another goddamn guinea pig! I am _not_ your fucking murderer!” _But you are_ , whispered a part of his brain he tried to ignore.

John needed to get the hell away from that flat, and away from Sherlock. He limped around the room, knocking down chairs in search of his cane. When did he use it last, and where did he bloody leave it? Finally, he found the handle poking out from under a table, grabbed it, and stomped to the front door, letting it slam behind him.

“John, I’m sorry,” he heard Sherlock call after him. John didn’t turn back.

***

John and Sherlock had an easy time avoiding each other over the next two weeks. The first day, John was unnerved and desperate enough to spend the night at Harry’s. She didn’t ask questions, thank goodness, but she did take the opportunity to let him know once more that she didn’t like that flatmate of his and didn’t trust him. John was almost inclined to agree.

After that, it was only a matter of picking up extra shifts at the surgery, while Sherlock volunteered his time to solve cold cases in between any new ones that cropped up. (John later discovered this from Lestrade, who called him to find out where he’d disappeared to.) John was never the night owl that Sherlock liked to be, and so he was usually asleep by the time Sherlock got home. In the morning, he was usually gone by the time Sherlock woke up. Their mutual evasion became a routine.

In those two weeks, John gave himself plenty of space to calm down and think carefully about what he wanted. Even if what he wanted went against his better judgment.

The thing was, though Sherlock’s experiment was awful and traumatic, it wasn’t malicious. Sherlock probably hadn’t considered the fact that John might resent being turned into a murderer. He certainly hadn’t considered John’s complicated history with gun violence. Then there was the fact that he hadn’t, strictly speaking, broken any rules. Which didn’t mitigate Sherlock’s actions, but it did make them slightly easier to forgive. And wasn’t it just like Sherlock to find the worst possible thing he could do within John’s confines, then act surprised at his reaction?

There was also the unavoidable truth that, in spite of everything, John missed it. Achingly. He missed going into trance, and he found himself more irritable at work, like a caffeine addict who’d gone off coffee. He also missed Sherlock. In the end, his desire to be hypnotized, by Sherlock specifically, won out over his anger at Sherlock’s carelessness.

So it was John who finally broke the two weeks of silence, one afternoon when he saw Sherlock’s bedroom door slightly ajar and heard the clicking of a keyboard inside. He knocked on the front of the door, then nudged it open before Sherlock could tell him to go away.

Sherlock was lying on his back with his laptop perched precariously on his chest. The screen was too close to his face, and overall he looked faintly ridiculous. He closed the computer when he heard John enter.

“I have two new rules,” said John from the doorway. He’d always known that Sherlock wasn’t particularly good at inferring the subtleties of human interaction, and so he needed to make these rules as specific as possible. He needed to spell out the things that would be obvious to anyone _except_ the world’s only consulting detective. “First of all, don’t tell me to do anything that I’m morally opposed to. If you’re not sure, ask first. And secondly, nothing related to violence. I get enough of that on a normal day.”

Sherlock stared at him in that uncomfortable way of his. “I thought you wouldn’t want to be hypnotized anymore. I was under the impression you were angry with me.”

“I am angry with you,” snapped John. Then he amended the statement. “I _was_ angry with you. But maybe I didn’t make something clear earlier.” He took a deep breath, and prepared to lay himself bare. “I want this. I don’t think you understand how much I’ve wanted this, or for how long. I know it’s all just a laugh to you, but I—” He stopped himself and looked away before saying the irrevocable word ‘need.’ He wasn’t ready to admit any sort of dependence on Sherlock, not if it wasn’t reciprocal. “It’s important to me,” he said instead. “And yeah, you pissed me off the other week, but apparently not enough to give it up entirely.”

“I’m not laughing,” replied Sherlock. He pushed his laptop off to the side and sat up all the way.

“Sorry, what?”

“You said it was just a laugh for me. I want to point out the fact that I’m not laughing.”

There was something in his tone that made John pause. John knew that Sherlock would never admit to any emotional attachment to anything, but when Sherlock said that he wasn’t laughing, John felt certain it was his way of admitting that whatever this was, it was important to him as well. Maybe important in a different way, but still important. He hoped he wasn’t wrong. “Okay,” he said. “Right, then.”

“Right.” Sherlock jumped from the bed and patted the edge of it. “Have a seat.”

“What, now?” John asked.

“If you want to,” said Sherlock. An unusually generous answer.

John hesitated, and then realized he had absolutely no reason to hesitate. “I’ve gone two whole bloody weeks without. God yes, I want to.”

So he came over and sat on the bed, Sherlock’s bed. They’d never done this in either of their bedrooms before. It made it feel far more intimate, and hypnosis was intimate to begin with.

John prepared himself for an induction, but instead Sherlock turned away and walked to his disaster area of a dresser. “I have something for you.”

“For me?” John asked in surprise. He couldn’t imagine what it might be, and knowing Sherlock, it could be anything. “Should I be frightened?”

Even though Sherlock’s back was toward him as he rummaged through his possessions, John could hear the smirk in his voice. “Only if you want to be. Ah, here it is.”

He turned back around with a triumphant smile. And dangling from his hand was something that stole John’s breath and made his heart pound.

It was a pocket watch. Just a standard, classic pocket watch with an exposed face that hung from a gold chain. An intricate pattern was etched into the back. Expensive, but not flashy. To anyone else it would seem like a perfectly normal object, but John thought he had never seen anything so tantalizing, and his cock readily agreed.

“When did you get that?” he asked in awe. _And how is it you seem to know everything about me?_ he added to himself.

“A few weeks ago.” Sherlock walked forward to stand before him, letting the watch hang at John’s eye level. John raised a hand to touch it and turn it, to look at it from all angles, take in every detail. Sherlock allowed this, but kept his grip on the chain instead of handing it to him. “I read through that ridiculous website you insist on visiting. The writing, by the way, is atrocious; I don’t know how you stand it. But I noticed that the stories that dealt with _actual_ hypnosis, and not alien mind control or magical powers, seemed to have a special fondness for clichés. Too many bad films, no doubt. I thought this particular cliché might suit you.”

It was strangely one of the most romantic gifts anyone had ever gotten him. John lowered his hand, but couldn’t take his eyes off of it. “It’s a good cliché, as far as they go,” he said softly.

“It comes with a condition.” Sherlock began letting the watch describe slow circles at the end of its chain. “You’ve given me a number of rules to follow, so I think it’s only fair that I should have a rule for you. Whenever you see this watch—in my hand, on a table, or anywhere—I want you to stop whatever it is you’re doing and focus all of your attention on it, then wait for further instruction. You will do this without having to be told. Do you understand?”

John swallowed, and gladly accepted. “Yes.” Sherlock could easily have made this rule an automatic trigger, but the fact that John would be obeying consciously and willingly was no less of a turn on. It gave Sherlock a different sort of power, and John was only too happy to let him have it.

“Very good,” said Sherlock. His voice was sinking to a lower register, to a smoother, more deliberate sound. “I can see that you’re already obeying the new rule, whether or not you were aware of it. That’s right. Just focus on the watch as it swings. Take a deep breath in…and let it out slowly. You’re so good at entering trance, you don’t even need me to say anything, do you? I could just stand here, swinging this watch back and forth, and you would take yourself far down into hypnosis on your own. You wouldn’t be able to fight it even if you wanted to, although I know you wouldn’t want to. Can you hear the ticking of the watch? Can you hear the seconds growing further and further apart? I’m sure that you can feel hypnosis creeping up on you now; maybe you feel that relaxation in the tips of your fingers, or in the corners of your eyes. Soon, it may begin to spread to the rest of your body, and you’ll find yourself sinking very deeply. I wonder if you could take your eyes off of this pocket watch even if you tried? If you try to look away, I think you’ll find that you can’t. You’re already dropping into trance so quickly. Go ahead and try to look anywhere else except focused on the swinging watch.”

John didn’t _want_ to look anywhere else, but he made a concerted effort to break his stare. He was pleased when he found his eyes unwilling to obey. There was something so alluring about it, and maybe Sherlock was right and it was the result of too many bad films and Saturday morning cartoons, but there was no better sex toy for someone with a hypnosis kink. The link between pocket watches and obedience was too well ingrained. The watch was now swinging in a slow, consistent pendulum motion. Every time it reached the far left of its trajectory, the glass reflected a flash of light. Everything else in the room was dark and blurred, except for Sherlock’s voice which remained sharp as crystal.

“You can stop trying. I know the effort must have exhausted you, so now I want you to take yourself down the rest of the way into the deepest level of hypnosis that you know. That’s right. Your eyes are so tired, but try to keep them open so you can continue to follow the watch. Very good. With your eyes open, let yourself sink all the way down to the very deepest stage of trance. Sinking all the way down, down to the bottom.

“I’m going to remove the watch now, but when I do, you will continue to see it in front of you, and you will continue to follow it with your eyes. Yes, just like that. Excellent, John.”

John wasn’t entirely sure when the actual watch was removed, because his brain made a seamless transition between the physical object and his mind’s depiction. He felt wonderful over every inch of his body. How had he lasted two weeks without this tingling, floating calm?

When Sherlock spoke again, his voice was much closer to John’s face. He might have been kneeling in front of him, but John wouldn’t know because all he could see was the pocket watch swinging left, then right. “Do you know what you look like when you’re under hypnosis? You can answer me; you’ll find it very easy to speak in a normal voice.”

“No.”

“Would you like me to tell you?”

“Yes,” answered John immediately. He had often wondered what Sherlock saw when they played these games.

“I’m going to describe it to you, and I want you to imagine it as though looking into a mirror. I think we’ll start from the top and work our way down.” Sherlock paused, presumably to gather his thoughts. Then he began describing John with his usual investigative precision.

“Your eyes are open and moving back and forth, focused on a distance just in front of me. Your eyelids are dropped halfway, and your pupils are dilated. Though I suspect that’s related to your state of arousal, and not the hypnosis. There’s a distinct glaze to your eyes, almost as if you were drugged. The lines of your face have noticeably smoothed out, particularly the lines of your forehead. I’m afraid you frown too much. There is also a slight flush to your skin, though it’s a color change that most wouldn’t pick up on. Your jaw is slack and your mouth is hanging open. Your entire head is tilted forward at an awkward angle. Normally your chin would be touching your chest as this point, but I assume you’re holding it up so you can continue to gaze at the watch. Your shoulders are slumped low, your back arched forward. Your chest is expanding slowly, taking only shallow breaths. Your right index finger twitches occasionally, as though you were dreaming.” John thought that Sherlock had finished, but then he added one more observation. “And your erection has increased considerably from the time I started this description. Now John, can you picture in your mind what you look like?”

Yes, he could imagine himself clearly, as though seeing a reflection. Sherlock’s meticulous report painted him in helpless, debauched strokes, and John was obscenely turned on by envisioning his own blissed-out face. But until Sherlock told him otherwise, he had no way to relieve his hard-on.

“The next time you masturbate on your own, allow yourself to conjure up this image of how you look in hypnosis. When you do, you’ll find it difficult to concentrate on anything else. You can stop seeing the pocket watch and close your eyes now, John.”

The watch faded away, and his eyes slipped shut. A silent moment followed, in which John drowned in his own relaxation and arousal, waiting to find out what would come next.

“Let me ask you: is there anything specific that you’ve wanted to do under hypnosis that we haven’t yet done?”

John frowned, that thing that Sherlock said he did too much of. Actually, there was a thought he had been entertaining rather frequently, but it wasn’t something he planned to tell him. He didn’t want to know how Sherlock would react. And he wasn’t sure if he was ready for it.

“Whatever it is, it’s okay to tell me. Any embarrassment or shame you might be feeling, just allow it to drift away with the rest of your concerns. And remember that all of your rules are firmly in place, and so you are quite safe. When you’re ready, you can tell me what it is you’d like to do.”

He didn’t want to tell Sherlock, it was probably a bad decision if he did, but the confession sort of slipped out in a moment when he forgot his own objections. “I want to suck you off,” he murmured.

This was followed by another stretch of silence. Then Sherlock said, “I’m going to ask you another question, and I want you to think very carefully before answering. I also want your answer to be as detailed and precise as it can. _Why_ do you want that?”

It was a simple enough question, but one that John hadn’t given much thought. It was just a fantasy, and who knew where those came from? But he tried to search his brain for an explanation of why the idea of putting Sherlock’s cock in his mouth had recently taken hold of him. What he discovered were two possible reasons for the fixation.

“Because it makes me uncomfortable,” he started to explain, in a voice that sounded quiet even to himself. Sherlock had asked him to talk normally, but he was still too relaxed to speak with any volume.

“Why do you want to do something that makes you uncomfortable?” Sherlock pressed.

John thought about that. It did seem like a contradiction, didn’t it? He wanted the things he didn’t want. But that’s what made it exciting for him. “So you can force me,” he said, before adding his second reason. “And I want you to get off.”

“Why do you care whether I get off?” asked Sherlock. He sounded genuinely confused—confused and uncertain.

“It’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“That I enjoy it more than you.”

There was silence after that, so that John wasn’t sure whether or not Sherlock found his answers satisfactory. In trance he generally blocked out any extraneous noises, but after a moment he noticed the distant, muffled sounds of footsteps pacing back and forth. He could also hear Sherlock muttering to himself, disconnected phrases like, “Maybe if…dammit, John…no, okay…”

John had nothing but patience, and very little sense of time, so he wasn’t sure how long it took for Sherlock to make his decision. As he waited, he thought about the things he had just admitted and learned about himself, in a detached but interested manner. And then Sherlock’s voice was back, with rushed instructions that seemed tense and nervous, but also resolute.

“Okay, John, this is what we’re going to do. In a few moments, I’ll ask you to open your eyes, and you will be able to perform oral sex like you wanted. But you won’t be doing it as John Watson. What I want you to imagine is that you’re a machine, not a person at all. You’re a mechanism that has been programmed to give excellent blowjobs and nothing else. You will have no thoughts, and no emotions. As a machine, you will do whatever I say without objection. Do you think this is something you can do for me?”

John allowed the idea to sink in. “Yes.”

“Okay. Right. Good.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “You can now begin, letting your thoughts drift away, and imagining yourself as mechanical. Completely inanimate, without emotion. Imagine you have a computer’s hard drive, and you’ve been programmed only to perform brilliant oral sex. When you are ready, you can open your eyes and begin.”

The first time John had been hypnotized, he had made note of the fact that even in trance he remained fully aware of what was happening, even when following suggestions, even when his memory temporarily lapsed. It was no surprise that hypnosis worked nothing like it did in films or in the stories he read; it didn’t make him a mindless slave. But this was closer to that fictional state of obedience as he let go of his personhood, his ideas and opinions, leaving only the willingness to follow instructions. Fully believing himself to be a machine, not human. He opened his eyes and took in the details of the man before him.

Sherlock was standing with his feet a shoulder’s width apart. His hands were at his sides and clenched to fists. He still wore a tailored button-down shirt and trousers that were only lowered to about mid-thigh. John registered these details, but his focus zeroed in on the cock that hung down from under his shirttails, from the nest of jet-black hair.

It was difficult to describe what followed. John understood exactly what he was doing, but he was indifferent to his own actions as he stood from the bed, walked to his target, and lowered himself to his knees. With his hand, he guided the limp cock to his mouth, and began with a few exploratory licks before sucking on the head. He took in every detail without sentiment, with the precision of a recording devise. He noticed that the cock, after a moment, began to harden. He breathed in the sent of musk and soap.

John took everything that his programming knew to be enjoyable, and put it into practice as best he could. He covered his teeth with his lips, and used his hand to stroke what he couldn’t fit down his throat. With his other hand, he fondled Sherlock’s balls. The only sounds in the room were his own sucking and the heavy breathing that came from above.

Before too long, the cock on his tongue grew stiff and solid, and that’s when John began receiving directives. They were usually one or two words: “Faster.” “More.” “Pull back.” Between instructions, the irregular breathing continued, sometimes in pants, sometimes sighs, and sometimes a sharp intake that would be held for a minute or two before the air was shakily exhaled. A hesitant hand was placed on the back of John's head.

There was only one command that was issued as a full sentence, and it came after Sherlock’s legs began to tremble.

“Drop your pants and stroke yourself, but do not let yourself come until after I have.”

Without questioning, John removed his hands from the man’s hips and brought them to his own zip. He hadn’t paid much attention to the fact that he, himself, had been hard this entire time, and as he wrapped a hand around his cock, he didn’t let it distract him from the more pressing responsibility in his mouth. “Harder” and “faster” were being commanded with greater frequency, and the breathing from above turned ragged.

Because Sherlock had remained as silent as possible the entire time, there was no warning before the cock in John’s mouth shuddered and erupted, and some of it ended up running down John’s chin as a result. The rest he tried to swallow with as much mechanical efficiency as possible, down to the final drop. The limp flesh slipped from between his lips, and a moment later he sped up and reached his own climax, ejaculating onto Sherlock’s trousers and letting out a very un-mechanical moan.

***

When John opened his eyes, he was lying on his back, on Sherlock’s bed, and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

He licked his lips and stared at the ceiling. Sherlock had cleaned off his face, but the taste of him, the taste of his semen, was still on his tongue and down the back of his throat. It tasted like obedience. John blinked, and cleared his head. No, it tasted like he really needed to brush his teeth.

He thought of what they had done this time…what _Sherlock_ had done…what John had agreed to…no, what John had _asked_ for. Something asked for and received, and yet completely unexpected. Also one of the most erotic things he’d ever experienced. He absently brushed his thumb against the corner of his mouth, his lower lip. He still felt too boneless to roll over or sit up.

Sherlock must have felt acutely guilty about their earlier fight. He had never given John a gift before, and he had never bothered to ask John what he wanted. It was an apology, then. The kind of apology only Sherlock could give, leaving John feeling more confused and overwhelmed than warm and fuzzy. At some point John would have to contend with that, with his first blowjob and a crush of ever-growing proportion. But he’d coped with much worse; he could handle it. Or maybe that was the post-trance bliss talking.

Sherlock, though—Sherlock with his maddening self-control, allowing John to see the cracks, that breathless panting. Not allowing John to hang any opinions or thoughts onto it until it was all over, until he had gone back to feeling human and Sherlock had quietly left the room.

John once again replayed the events in his head, and this time certain details stood out: Sherlock’s hesitance, his tense posture, the conditions by which he had agreed to sex, and the most alarming fact, his current absence—not to mention the absence of tea. John began to worry. Did Sherlock enjoy it, or put up with it? Was dehumanizing John the only way he could go through with it? Did John force him into something he wasn’t ready for, even though Sherlock had been the one in control?

He quickly forgot his own concerns, and latched onto his increasing sense of concern for Sherlock. He hated fretting about himself, anyway; he much preferred having someone else to take care of, assuming Sherlock needed taking care of.

Reluctant to use his muscles again but determined, John pushed himself off the bed then padded to the door. He found Sherlock in the living room, lying on his side on the sofa, curled halfway toward the fetal position, and staring at the side of the telly. That didn’t bode well. Though John was relieved he hadn’t fled the flat entirely.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Are you—“

“I’m fine,” Sherlock interjected before John could ask. Which could mean fine, but probably meant not fine at all.

John stood there for a moment, trying to think of something he could offer that Sherlock wouldn’t reject out of hand. Sympathy was out. So was any blatant display of affection. What would Sherlock do in his place? Oh, right. “I’ll go make us a cuppa, then,” he offered.

He was silent as he set the water boiling, and Sherlock, if possible, was even more silent. It wasn’t that Sherlock looked upset, exactly, and even his curled up position on the couch wasn’t out of the ordinary; Sherlock always had a strange way of interacting with furniture. It was that he seemed closed off entirely, hard as a shell, and John couldn’t accept that. They had refrained from talking about things, important things, in the past. Often John let it slide, but not this time. Though he didn’t know how to broach the topic.

He let the silence stretch until the water had boiled, until the tea had been made and he was walking to the living room carefully balancing two mugs. “So, that was my first time with a bloke,” he admitted, the only thing he could think to say. “That is, if you don’t count anything we’ve been doing up until now.” And at this point, he wasn’t really sure what counted. Did they start having sex as soon as John’s lips touched Sherlock’s cock? Or was it earlier, back to the moment when Sherlock lit a candle and John closed his eyes? The normal definitions didn’t seem to apply.

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock mumbled in response from the sofa.

Instead of asking how he knew, John just raised an eyebrow. “That bad, was I?”

John had the satisfaction of seeing Sherlock’s lips curl. It was one of his favorite reactions to provoke: that exasperated and condescending, but secretly amused and possibly affectionate smirk. Swinging his legs over so that he was now sitting upright, Sherlock accepted the tea in hand and hunched over it, letting the steam hit his face. John sat down next to him.

For a while, they enjoyed their drinks without words. Sherlock was tapping his foot and still staring at nothing in front of him. When their mugs were half drained, he finally answered John’s confession with one of his own. “I suppose you now want me to tell you that it was my first sexual encounter.”

Which only confirmed John’s suspicions. “Yes, I know,” he said, in imitation of the detective. Sherlock wasn’t the only one allowed to be a smart arse.

Sherlock huffed. “You didn’t _know_ , you’d guessed. There is a distinction.”

John waved away the distinction with his hand. “Fine, I guessed. Whatever you’d rather call it.” He scratched the back of his neck, and glanced at Sherlock’s profile sidelong. “So…what did you think?”

“About what?” Sherlock asked. “Sex generally? Oral sex specifically? Your particular talents?”

John cringed. “Let’s leave my talents out of it. I don’t think I need my ego bruised just yet.”

Sherlock shrugged. “My opinions would hardly matter, anyway, as I have no basis for comparison.”

“Then let’s say…sex generally.” John experienced a moment of disconnect where he didn’t actually believe they were having this conversation. He took a deep breath. “With me, specifically.”

Sherlock looked at him sharply and narrowed his eyes in consideration before looking away. The tapping in his foot had spread, so that his knee was now bouncing up and down. He took another long sip of tea.

“It was…” The extended pause made John expect some brilliant analysis, but Sherlock finished his sentence with the single word, “good. And for what it’s worth, I thought you performed admirably.”

On the inside, John breathed a heavy sigh of relief. ‘Good’ was practically Sherlock’s highest form of praise. So John hadn’t irrevocably scarred him after all. “I thought it was brilliant,” John agreed, with the beginnings of a smile. “ _You_ were brilliant. Even if that twisted imagination of yours is a bit frightening sometimes.” He looked back down at Sherlock’s still-bouncing knee, and only then noticed that he’d changed his clothes. “Sorry I made a mess of your trousers, by the way.”

“The damage wasn’t permanent.”

Sherlock shifted to place his empty mug on the table next to John’s, and because John was already looking down, that’s when he saw it. The gold chain, clasped to Sherlock’s belt loop and disappearing into his pocket. He hadn’t put it away. He was _wearing_ it, close to him, like a keepsake or a weapon, or both. John’s breath caught in his throat, and his heart did a funny clench inside his chest.

When he looked up, he saw that Sherlock had noticed him noticing. Sherlock was gazing at him with his best poker face, but there was a glint in his eye that was dangerous, passionate, and alluring all at once. It was an expression that made him absolutely stunning. John had recognized, objectively, that Sherlock was attractive from the first day they met, and he wondered when Sherlock had crossed the line from attractive to breathtaking. He was certain it had something to do with that piercing look, the one that dissected him and left him bare.

John leaned forward. “Can I kiss you?”

“What? Why?” Sherlock sputtered, his deadpan expression replaced by a look of alarm. John would have been put off, but the reaction was almost comical, and he bit back a grin.

“Because that’s what people tend to do,” he explained, “usually _before_ they start shagging, but I don’t mind doing things a bit backwards.”

Sherlock frowned. “Yes, I’m aware of that, but to what purpose? It always seemed like a rather pointless exercise.”

John boggled, but fine. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to explain the basics of human interaction to Sherlock. “They do it because it…feels nice,” he tried. Sherlock’s frown deepened. Okay, another tactic, then. “Because it’s a way of being intimate.”

“Sex is more intimate,” Sherlock countered. “And most would argue that it feels better.”

John sighed. “Yeah, but people can’t very well go around shagging every time they want to show affection.” He fished around for an indisputable reason why he should be allowed to kiss him, and that’s when an idea struck. John had a very good reason, in fact, and he had a feeling it was enough to convince Sherlock. He’d soon find out. Call it an experiment. “Because… _I’d_ enjoy it,” he said carefully.

This time Sherlock didn’t have a ready retort. His fidgeting leg was joined by rapidly drumming fingers against his thigh as he considered it. John was feeling equally restless as he waited for a response. Finally, Sherlock stopped fidgeting, turned to him, and said, “Okay.”

John needed no other invitation. He wrapped a hand around the back of Sherlock’s head and brought their mouths together, dispensing with any close-lipped chastity, and heading straight for Sherlock’s tongue with his own. He could have been gentler, perhaps, or started slower, but he’d lost the last of his patience during their conversation. He knew what he wanted and he had permission to take it. Sherlock was thrown at first, but he seemed to recover quickly, and soon he was matching John’s every action. John sucked on Sherlock’s tongue, and Sherlock bit down on John’s lower lip.

There were hands, as well, more touching than all their months of living together combined, though it was hardly enough. John pushed his fingers through Sherlock’s soft curls, grasping his hair like a lifeline, while his other hand explored Sherlock’s exposed neck, his shoulder blade, that visible fragment of his chest where Sherlock always left his shirts unbuttoned. Sherlock seemed reluctant to join in, but John paused what he was doing to place Sherlock’s hands firmly on his waist, under his shirt and jumper, along the heated skin just above his hips. Sherlock took charge from there, sliding his hands up along John’s back and sides. His fingers were precise and thorough as a doctor’s, but far more insistent, far less clinical. He paused every time he discovered scar tissue, or a knotted muscle, or a sensitive spot that made John squirm, no doubt cataloging his body for later.

If John hadn’t so recently been spent, he would have been hard by now. He felt surrounded by Sherlock, intoxicated by his smell and his heat, the fingers pressing against him, their tongues pressed together. He let his hand run down the front of Sherlock’s shirt, and thought of the watch concealed in his trousers. His cock twitched.

John decided that maybe he should stop before he found himself more recovered than he’d initially thought. With a sigh breathed directly into Sherlock’s mouth, he slowed the kiss and gently pulled them apart, his fingers lingering against Sherlock’s chest just a moment longer. He wondered what Sherlock could read in his face, in his flushed cheeks, his dilated pupils, and his swollen lips. Could he deduce for himself how John felt about him, what Sherlock did to him?

“Well?” said John, his voice pitched low.

Sherlock looked abnormally disheveled; John had really made a mess of the man’s hair. “When did you chip your tooth?” he asked.

“When I was eleven. Don’t change the subject.”

There was a flicker of a smile before Sherlock leaned back against the seat. He tented his fingers on his lap. “It wasn’t offensive.”

John chuckled. “No, it wasn’t, was it? Not offensive at all.” In fact, it felt like pieces coming together. Him and Sherlock. Like a puzzle solved. They could do this if they wanted, kiss and shag, hypnotize and be hypnotized, argue and share meals and solve cases. It could all work. John felt giddy and happy, and his chuckle turned to an all-out laugh as he suddenly thought of his sister. If only she could hear that assessment. John, the dull heterosexual, snogging a bloke and enjoying the hell out of it.

“What’s so funny?” Sherlock asked suspiciously. Did he think John was laughing at him? John was quick to explain.

“Harry. She would completely lose it if she found out. She always did like to poke fun at me for being straight.”

Sherlock scrunched his nose in disdain. He’d only met Harry once, but their instant dislike had been mutual. Anything Harry said, Sherlock was bound to disagree with. “Then she’s an idiot. What you are is far more interesting than gay or straight.”

Sherlock’s words were slow to register, but as they did, the smile fell from John’s lips. _More interesting than gay or straight._ It was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever heard. And Sherlock wasn’t even saying it as a compliment, but as a statement of fact. Sherlock’s fidgeting leg had begun rocking back and forth, so John placed a hand on his knee to steady it, and responded with a factual statement of his own.

“And you are, by far, the most interesting person I’ve ever known.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, grinning, and leaning into the touch, “I am.”


End file.
